Gravity
by MollyBananahammock
Summary: "Something always brings me back to you... it never takes too long." (Vague summary, I know, but I don't know how else to summarise it! Based around the drunken phone call of season 5.)


A/N: So a couple of days ago I came across this song called Gravity by Sara Bareilles that I haven't heard in SO LONG. I'd forgotten it existed and also how bloody good it is (for sure worth a listen if you don't know it guys!) anyway it stirred up all these little story ideas and this is one of them. It's just a short thing surrounding the whole drunken phone call from season 5 and may have another chapter from Alex's POV.

Hope you all enjoy! and Happy Halloween!

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 _Something always brings me back to you. It never takes too long._

You're always there. You never really disappear from my thoughts for very long and every time you come back it hurts just as bad as it did back then.

It was the tattoo this time. That fucking fish on the back of my neck that was supposed to remind you of beauty but now only ever reminds me of you, and I guess in that way it still serves its purpose, except your beauty isn't what I want to remember because that only makes it harder.

I want to remember your ugliness. The arguments and your fucked up priorities.

I was never really one of them, was I? I'd always come second best. Your job would always come first. Gotta keep the boss happy before keeping me happy. I was just along for the ride. I should just be glad that you brought me along instead of insisting you spend more time with me than you do with your phone or your laptop or your latest drug mule.

I don't think of that when I think of you though. I don't think of how manipulative you could be. I don't think of the days spent yelling at each other in a hotel room because I want to go exploring and you're too stressed out to even leave the room.

I think of how good we were together. I think of the way you smiled and the way you laughed. I think of how good your lips felt on the side of my neck and the way your voice sounded as it whispered into my ear. I think of the sex and how no-one has made me feel the way you made me feel.

You. You. You.

No-one has stirred up the same passion in me that you did, not even my boyfriend.

Yes, my boyfriend. Would it surprise you if I told you I hadn't been with another woman since we broke up?

I don't know why. I haven't thought much of it really. Women have caught my attention. They've flirted and I've flirted back but they don't have what you had. They don't draw me in the way you did. I hadn't been with a woman before you and I doubt I will after you. It's just not the same. I think you'll take some pleasure in that.

I don't love him. He's nice. He's the kind of guy I _should_ be with. The kind that I _should_ be in love with. The kind of guy my mother approves of. I do care about him and in some sort of way I do love him, but not how I loved you. It's not the same. We don't have that all-encompassing kind of love. The passionate kind, full of overblown fights and rough make-up sex. I know the love we had wasn't healthy. I know normal relationships aren't supposed to be so extremely up and down but everything else just seems so… boring.

I'm bored _now_. With him. With everything in my life. I long for the adventure we had and the excitement you brought me.

That stupid fucking tattoo. I wish I hadn't gotten it and at the same time I'm so glad I did. I wonder if I'd still be reminded of you if I didn't have it. If I'd still get these crushing memories that make me yearn for you all over again. I probably would. It's not just the tattoo that reminds me of you. There's still a part of you in me, the part that thinks some sarcastic comment at the most inappropriate moments. The kind I'd never say aloud but know you would. I think of you with every new book I read that I'll know you'll like, with every song I hear that I once heard with you, in that bar or in bed. I see you in every tall dark-haired woman with glasses that I pass on the street. My heart will skip with something between delight and fear and I'll look back to realise it wasn't you and I'm disappointed even though I don't know what I'd do if it _were_ you. Call your name? Ask how you are? Tell you I'm sorry for how I left things?

Would you believe me if I told you I hate myself for leaving the way I did? Would it give you some sort of solace to know that I would do it all differently if I could? Would it help to know that the way you looked as I walked out that door, the pain you face showed, still haunts me?

I doubt it would and I don't blame you. I couldn't.

Those thoughts I drown in alcohol. Wine that soaks into my blood and burns away the memories, but not for long. Once the initial buzz is gone I'm left drunk, sitting on the sofa while Larry sleeps carefully so as to not hurt the sensitive patch of his ass where he got that stupid Kool-Aid guy tattooed. Yes – the Kool-Aid guy. Stupid, isn't it? Men can be odd creatures.

Watching him get that is the very reason that I can't stop thinking about my fish, and about you. Comparing his inking of zero meaning to mine that holds so much. Too much. Reminding me of the very day I got it and of the way you smiled when I showed you it. Reminding me of yours, the one you just had to get to counteract the positivity mine had. To piss me off.

Love is Pain….

You were right in the end, which is slightly infuriating.

Where are you? Who are you with? Do you ever think of me? Do you miss me?

I fall deep into this cycle of thought and before I know it I'm taking my bottle of wine to the bathroom, and I call you.

It's been so long since I called I don't even know that it's still your number but I try it anyway. Just seeing your name flash on my screen as it rings gives me a sense of familiarity, of warmth, of all the times I called for reasons better than this one.

You don't pick up. Of course you don't. Why would you? You don't know that I'm sorry. You probably still hate me. You're probably currently fucking some other woman. A girlfriend, maybe? Or did I burn you too badly? Did I leave you reluctant to trust and unwilling to enter into more meaningful relationships? Or am I just being narcissistic believing that I could cause you such damage?

You're probably over me. You've probably had countless other relationships, ones better than ours. Ones that aren't fuelled with fights. You've probably been in love again.

That stings a little. I don't like to think of that. I want you to be happy but the thought of you saying the same things you said to me to someone else makes me ache with something akin to jealousy and fury.

You don't pick up and it's probably better that way. It means I can do all the talking, but then I hear your voicemail message and I kind of wish you had. I hear your voice and it makes me want to hear more. I've missed that voice. I've missed how that rich tone sweeps over words the way the water flows over rocks in a river. Smoothly.

I want to hear you say my name. Only your voice can make it sound so good. I want to hear you tell me you love me and that you want me. Only your voice can make those words turn my insides to hot jelly.

You don't pick up so I listen to your voice and then I spill my guts anyway.

"How are you still… in my brain?" I ask after a little rambling, because I honestly don't know. It's been years. I should be over you by now. I shouldn't be thinking of you and calling you from my bathroom floor.

"Do you miss me?" I say and add quickly, "probably not."

That was a stupid question.

"I miss you," I say next and it snaps me back to reality. I can't believe said it out loud. Something in the back of my mind tells me I'll regret it in the morning.

I don't want you to know I miss you. I don't want you to have the satisfaction and the power.

And yet… I do. Because I want you to call me back. I want you to tell me you do miss me, too. That you forgive me for all the shit I caused and we can go back to how we were.

Back to when I was happier.


End file.
